As autumn gave way to winter, and the jewel-toned leaves of the Lumnos forests curled, withered, and absorbed into the cold-hardened soil, the frosty air carried with it a sense that something was coming. It was a quiet, dangerous thing, like the crackle in the air that warned of a lightning bolt preparing to strike. The voice inside me could sense it, too. It no longer slumbered—it waited. I slept and woke to the endless hum of it in my ear. It had become so constant a presence I could almost ignore it completely. Almost. But there were times when it grew so loud, so insistent with its calls
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